I puff my cigarette again as my reward and lift my head to release the smoke. Looking back down our eyes meet and suddenly nothing feels funny. Well, actually something feels pretty fucking funny, just not my stupid joke.
“So,” she says to break our stare, “What are you doing over here?” She gestures to the strip of stores and restaurants behind us.
Flicking my ash, I buy myself half a second then motion to Enzo’s.
“Just grabbing food after work.” It’s technically not a lie.Plus I live there.
“Oh, Enzo’s! I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s good.”
“Best in town.” Again, not a lie.Plus I live there.
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” She pauses expectantly. I realize she’s waiting for me to reciprocate the question. Damn, is this what casual conversation is?
“How about you? Since apparently you’renotfollowing me?”
She tilts her head and squints as if to say, “Ha Ha” then shakes her iced coffee.
“Busy’s.” She points to the sign on the door right behind us where BUSY BREWZ is written in bold yellow lettering.
“With a ‘Z.’ Cute.” I puff again, poorly attempting to hide my smirk.
She rolls her eyes playfully and my stomach rolls with them. My own body is betraying everything I’ve ever known.
“The butterscotch latte is my weakness,” she laughs but I’m immediately hit with a memory.
I’m five and in my closet, blanketed by dirty laundry. My palm hurts and I don’t know why. There was screaming and banging in the next room, so I stopped playing with my Matchbox cars and did what Mommy told me to do—I’m hiding until she comes to get me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but all of a sudden, I hear the closet door creep open.
“Jamison, it’s okay, honey. Mommy’s here.” I hear her knees hit the floor.
The sound of her voice alone is enough to calm me down. Suddenly my palm doesn’t hurt so bad. I crawl out from under the clothes and into Mommy’s arms. Her shirt is ripped and she smells like him, but she hugs me tight and gently kisses the top of my head.
“It’s okay. It’s okay," she says over and over and over. When I finally let go, she wipes silent tears from my cheeks. “I brought you something.” My face lights up. “Close your eyes and put out your hand.” I do as she says.
When I open, I see a small butterscotch candy sitting next to my red 1979 Lincoln Continental. I smile, then she smiles, and we both ignore that the spot where it sits on my hand is surrounded by tiny red indents matching the car’s frame.
I blink hard and Claire is staring at me, head slightly forward, waiting.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, have you ever had one?” she repeats, raising her cup.
“Oh, uh, no. Not really my thing.” If she notices my dejection she doesn’t react.
“They’re kind of sweet, but they taste like childhood.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I mutter under my breath, looking at the ground to stomp out my butt before throwing it away.
“What was that?”
“I should probably go.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I meet her gaze. She’s caught off guard by my sudden exit, but I think it’s best I end this now.
“Oh, sure, yeah, me too,” she says, checking her watch.
Itighten my lips and walk backward two steps before turning around completely. As I reach Enzo’s I glance over my shoulder, but Claire is gone.
“Jay! Where the hell ya been?” Ronan Caruso stretches a large pizza dough, then throws it high above his head. He stands behind the counter, his short frame half hidden by the display window filled with pies of all different toppings from extra cheese to eggplant florentine. His shirt, dusted in flour says:May I Suggest the Italian Sausagewith a suggestive arrow pointing towards his apron. The humor is so unlike him that it makes it even funnier.
The best part is that Ro isn’t even Italian. The kid is as pale and Irish as they come, but the couple that took him in when he was fifteen was. His adopted dad, Enzo, taught him all about the business.
